Weekend Pilot . . . A Valentine for My Dad

In the summer of 1945 when I am six, Dad has his pilot’s license and the use of a single propeller, two-seater plane. Dad is a bear of a man-burly, strong, and capable of deep growly curses when things don't go as planned. He sings in the shower and whistles as he dresses for the day.

On Sunday afternoons, Mom, Dad, my brother, Ben and I drive to the local airport, no more than a single hangar and a landing strip located in the section of the rich farmlands in Southern Pennsylvania that we call home. Dad flies my brother and me in turn around the countryside. [...]